


Romany Dagger

by Ragazza_Guasto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Blow Jobs, Carnival, Dickbutt?, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fortune Telling, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Praise Kink, Propositions, Rimming, Romany, Roughhousing, Smut, Sort of Butt Sex, Threats of Violence, implied thoughts of suicide, switch POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 00:24:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3153905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John takes his first date after returning home to London to a Carnival and happens upon the worlds most unlikely fortune teller. Despite being horrified by the man's 'reading' John finds himself going back for more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Back to the Carnival

**Author's Note:**

> *flips every single table in the world*  
> READ THIS THING WHILE I CRY IN THE CORNER BECAUSE I CAN'T SEEM TO WORK ON MY IMPORTANT PROJECTS BUT I SURE AS HELL SEEMED TO BE ABLE TO PUMP THIS SON OF A BITCH OUT OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD!!!  
> Legit, it might be some of the hottest smut I've ever done, so there's that.  
> Unbeta'd and unbrit-picked, awful mistakes are my own.  
> *cries*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John feels the carnival is a bit cliche for a second date but goes for it anyway. Lucky for him, the night provides more entertainment than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's POV. No smut in this one, just good old fashion John awkwardness and Sherlock antics.

John glanced at the poster announcing the price of admission and felt a frisson of unease skate down his spine. He wished he’d thought this plan out more thoroughly. It was so cliché, honestly.

“Oh, John, this is so sweet of you. I haven’t been to the carnival in years!” Scarlett chirped excitedly by his side as he fished out the cash for their tickets.

He smiled at her, glad it wasn’t _too_ cliché apparently, and tried not to notice the dwindling amount in his wallet. His next pension cheque wouldn’t drop in his account for another five days, as Scarlett was proving to be an expensive date this week, and this was only their second one, he resigned himself to ready meals and no cream for his tea for the rest of the week.

They linked arms, John handed their tickets to the man at the gate, who stamped their hands and wished them a wonderful adventure, and made their way forward down the median of bustling activity. John’s limp slowed them down but Scarlett didn’t seem to mind. He liked that.

The harshness of sound and garishness of the lights quickly became more than just a little irritating to John, but he soldiered on for Scarlett’s sake. She stared on with an almost childlike glee as they passed vendors hawking wears and women wearing veils and scarves. He had to admit he was slightly impressed with the fire breathers but, really, he _was_ abnormally attracted to dangerous activities in general. Lord help him if they ran into any sword swallowers.

“John, look!” Scarlett tugged on his sleeve and pointed at the Ferris wheel. “Can we?”

“Of course,” he agreed with a smile. The Ferris wheel was fairly innocuous as far as rides went. Anything quicker might aggravate his shoulder and leg.

Scarlett tugged him along, not unkindly, but with clear enthusiasm.

John gave a polite smile to the operator on his way past, glad there hadn’t been a line to wait in as standing still for too long only to move again would do a real number on him, but the operator stopped him with a hand.

“Need your cane, mate,” the man said apologetically.

John blinked at him, sure he’d misunderstood. “You what?”

“Your cane. ‘Fraid you’ll have to leave it with me.” He pointed at other riders personal items.

John gripped the aluminium cane, unwilling to part with it. “But…”

“I’m sorry, mate, but those are the rules. I can’t be liable for you dropping it on a fellow reveler.”

Scarlett leaned in to whisper in his ear, “It’s all right. You’ll be sitting down, you won’t need it.”

He knew he was being difficult, that there were patrons behind them now and that he was holding up the line, but he was loathe to let it out of his sight, hated as the thing was. Eventually though he nodded and handed it over. The operator smiled kindly and leaned it up against the gate by his feet with the rest of the purses and prizes won by the other patrons.

Scarlett helped him shuffle forward and sat heavily with him in the cold metal seat. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

 

John snorted as the operator closed them into the bucket and started the ride so the next couple could get on.

“That’s a sight, isn’t it?” He remarked as they went higher and higher. The lights of the carnival glittered more subtlety from above, just colored fairy lights amid the London skyline beyond.

“Very pretty,” she agreed, snuggling close.

John smiled at her, glad for the warmth.

She really wasn’t as terrible as Bill had assured when he heard John was interested. A cousin who’d come to Bill’s return home party two weeks ago, they’d stroke up a conversation on John’s semi-vegetarian ways, something Bill thought was hilarious, and both ended the night with their heads together at the bar, the party long over around them. Bill had warned him off the next day, saying she was too high maintenance, too needy. But she was family; what did Bill know about her as a potential girlfriend? 

 _She is fairly expensive_ , an internal voice whispered, but he ignored it in favour of wrapping an arm around her. As terrible as he knew it was, she was damn beautiful and if he could just get her into bed at least once...

His eyes drifted to his cane as they went by, his nerves soothed and then frayed again with each pass. He didn’t think she understood exactly, but as much as he did hate the blasted thing, he was dependent on it. He’d not even make it to the front gates without it.

“What next?” John asked on a whim to distract himself, but also silently hoping she didn’t expect him to win her any prizes.

“Hmm, how about a toffee apple?” She grinned up at him. Wow, but she was good looking. 

He mentally calculated how much he could spare and nodded. “Sure. Toffee apples it is.”

Once the ride was over and they were let off, and John once again had his wretched cane in hand, they made their way toward the food vendors. Everything smelled amazing and his mouth watered at the decadent choices around them. But his stomach also gave a sick lurch, nausea mixed with hunger pains, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten properly in…well, a long time. Perhaps he’d hold off on the toffee apple; it would probably give him an upset stomach anyway.

He begged off when Scarlett questioned why he hadn’t gotten one for himself, blaming it on a bad tooth; opting for some hot cocoa instead.

As they walked on, he began to dread the game vendors ahead, knowing their penchant for calling out to blokes to win prizes for their girls. It was an insidious tactic that almost always worked. It was nearly impossible to be subtle about steering her away, as there really wasn’t anywhere else to go but back the way they’d come.

“John, look,” she pointed, “rifles. Bet you’d be a pro at that, right?” She seemed so thrilled with her suggestion.

John smiled at her and tried not to make eye contact with the barker, but it was too late, he’d seen Scarlett signal at the game.

“Win the lady a prize, sir?” He called out to them. “C’mon, strapping bloke like you, don’t let the lady down.”

John flinched and attempted to keep walking but Scarlett tugged on his arm, nearly sloshing his cocoa over his glove.

“C’mon, John, you can do it. You’re ahead of the curve after all.” She grinned, knowing her wide smile was half the appeal of her beauty. It wasn’t fair. 

He relented with a wan smile and she squealed, pulling him to the booth, in excitement.

“How much?” He asked quietly, pulling his wallet out reluctantly.

“Fiver,” the man announced with a smug snap of his gum. 

John frowned but handed it over. _I’m going to be turning tricks at the rate she’s going tonight._

The vendor handed John the bolt action pellet rifle and John tested its weight, found it mockingly lighter than his own L85A2. A thought occurred briefly: should he be worried about shooting affecting his PTSD? Would it trigger an episode? He’d not shot a weapon since the day he was taken down by an enemy bullet and shipped home. Was he about to make a fool of himself? Did it bother him that Scarlett hadn’t thought of that either? No, she was a civilian; they rarely thought of or understood triggers. They just didn't _know_. 

He smiled at her and shouldered the rifle, glad it was light, as it didn’t press too deeply against his wounded shoulder. He looked down range at the moving targets, ducks and rabbits respectively, took a deep breath as he memorized their positions, let it out, and then fired.

One after the other, each target was blown back. Rabbit, rabbit, duck, duck, rabbit, duck. John’s hands had never been steadier, not since before he’d taken that sodding bullet, and even he was surprised how quickly he was finished.

 

Scarlett and the vendor both gaped at him as he set the rifle down.

“Wow,” Scarlett breathed. “That was-”

“Oi, right, take yer damn bear and get the ‘ell out, mate.”

The vendor shoved an enormous bear at John, who stumbled back at the unexpected weight, and hitched a thumb for them to go. John laughed, sort of proud of himself actually. He was glad he’d stopped at Scarlett’s suggestion.

“Here you go, dear,” he said and handed the bear over. She giggled and squeezed it to her chest, though the thing was easily three fourths her size. “You satisfied with that? Cause I don’t think we’ll fit another on the tube.”

She gave a satisfying chuckle and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Yes, you did splendidly! Thank you.”

Well, his night was certainly looking up. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so sure she wouldn’t sleep with him until their third date…

He grabbed his cane from the booth and they walked on again.

“What do you think? Tilt-a-whirl or the two headed goat exhibit?” He asked, hoping for the goat exhibit but really not bothered by the ride, even seeing it as a challenge after the adrenaline of the shooting booth.

She scrunched her nose in disgust at the goat idea. “No, thank you. If it’s fake it would be a waste of time and if it was real I’d just cry probably.”

“Practical,” John noted. “Tilt-a-whirl it is then.” He moved with a purpose towards it but she stopped him with a hand.

“Wait. What about that?” She nodded toward the tent on their left.

John looked it over. “Madame Endora,” he read, skeptical until he noted that where it had once announced being ten quid a telling on the chalkboard easel, someone had scratched it out and written ‘Free’.

“Why not?” John quipped with a grin, happy to distract her with something that wouldn’t break the bank.

He stopped just outside of the tent entrance and stared down at the kid who sat on the ground out front, backwards hat atop his head and texting on a mobile.

“Um,” John murmured, unsure. “Are you waiting or…?”

The kid hitched his thumb at the tent flap and went back to his phone without looking up.

John glanced at Scarlett but she just shrugged. He took her by the shoulder and steered her inside. She seemed to get a kick out of that, like John was scared to go in first, which, he wouldn’t lie to himself, he kind of was. Maybe not scared, apprehensive .

They ducked under the canvas flap and were immediately struck by the difference in décor from the plain outside of the tent. It was decadent, lush even, with large potted plants and draped velvet and silk. It was much warmer inside as well, with hot air from an electric heater in the corner blowing toward the tent flap. But the décor only arrested John’s attention for a moment.

“Ahh,” John breathed in stunned confusion. As quickly as he could, without being totally obvious, he gathered details about what he was seeing.

Instead of the middle aged gypsy woman John was expecting, there sat a younger, quite posh bloke in a bespoke suit, sans tie, with his feet up on the empty table. He was lovely- strangely handsome in a way that wasn’t classic or obvious but was quite simply striking, with his nearly translucent marble skin, black curls that begged to be tugged, and what appeared to be blue but could possibly be green eyes that followed like a hawk. His cheekbones were positively ridiculous but John still itched to touch. One certainly wouldn’t forget a face like that. And he sat with such an elegant grace that even in stillness you felt immediately that you were intruding on royalty.

And John had only just glanced at him.

“Hello,” the man greeted, his voice doing John in completely. “Have a seat.”

John looked to Scarlett again, to gauge her reaction, but found she was looking the man up and down. He couldn’t even fault her for it, there _was_ a lot to look at.

John pulled the seat out for her to sit, while the man seated across removed his long legs from atop the table. John rested his cane against the edge and lowered himself carefully down in his own chair.

“Now, what brings you to my table?” The man asked congenially, fingers steepled and held against his lips.

John glanced down at the empty table- no tarot cards, no crystal ball, not even a translucent scarf thrown over top.

“To have our fortunes read, of course,” Scarlett answered excitedly.

“Madame Endora…?” John hesitantly started in confusion, making an arse of himself.

“Sherlock,” the man corrected, his voice an octave above a growl, with a twinkle in his eye at John’s uncomfortableness.

“Sherlock,” John repeated, as if that were much better, “do you do palms or…” He let the question trail off, getting a lot more apprehensive by the second.

“I could do,” he quipped back, “if you’d like.” The so called ‘Sherlock’ held his hand out for John’s palm.

He glanced to Scarlett again, but she was no help, giving John a nudge and a wink.

Slowly, cautiously, as if the man might bite, he slid his hand across the table. By the time Sherlock reached out for it, John was already annoyed at his knowing smirk, that small half smile that stated he was amused by John’s caution.

When their skin touched, John was shocked to find Sherlock’s hand was very warm to the touch. The assumption might have to do with his porcelain skin- the cool white of his flesh and his aloof demeanor should have denoted frigid tempatures…but it didn’t.

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed, seemingly interested in the _back_ of John’s hand, which he thought was weird.  The man glanced up, with his arctic blue piercing eyes, and stated, “Doctor.”

John flinched in surprise; not a little impressed. “How- Yes.”

Sherlock nodded and turned his hand over, but he kept glancing at other points of John’s body, his eyes, mouth, shoulders, even his hair. John didn’t know whether to continue to be annoyed or inappropriately flattered.

When Sherlock ran his thumb under the cuff of John’s jacket the electric pulse across John’s skin said ‘flattered, very flattered.’

John glanced over at Scarlett again to see if she’d noted any of the current that was suddenly thickening the air, but his attention was snapped back when Sherlock ran his surprisingly rough fingertips over John’s own and asked, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John stared at him in shock. He knew his face was comically blank, but really, how was he meant to respond to that?

“Afghanistan,” he finally breathed in answer.

Sherlock nodded again, just the once, let go of John’s hand abruptly and then sat back in his seat.

“Drop this one,” he flicked his wrist at Scarlett, “she’s not right for you.”

They both sat back at that.

“Excuse me?” Scarlett snapped in shock.  She looked to John to be just as enraged, and on some level he was, but he was still stunned by the man’s proclamations from before, his confidence, his…well everything.

“Oh, you like him well enough,” Sherlock explained to her, “but you’re in it for the long game. You think if you stick around long enough he’ll go back into surgery and you’ll be a proper doctor’s wife. Not going to happen. His tremors will never allow it. Sure, he might do a little locum work but the strain of your too high-reaching expectations will drive a wedge sooner or later. Best break it off now when you’re not invested before he starts in with the vigilantism and collecting ASBO’s. Really, I’m doing you both a favour.”

Scarlett scoffed in indignation, her nails making a hair raising sound as she clawed her arm rest. “I can’t believe this. No wonder you’re not charging anything. I’d likely have punched you if we’d made the mistake of paying you. C’mon, John, let’s leave.”

She got up but John felt himself glued to the chair by Sherlock’s stare.

“He wouldn’t have stopped if I’d been charging. Would you, _John_?”

Christ, his name sounded like something exotic when spoken with such a voice. Even if he was still being a dick.

“I- Um,” John stammered, unable to collect a rational response.

“John!” Scarlett snapped, calling him like a dog.

He flinched when Sherlock’s smirk turned into a full blow grin, which was when his dignity finally kicked back in.

He stood from the table, wishing he didn’t have to use the cane to brace himself. “You shouldn’t have said those things.”

“Even if they were true?” Sherlock asked back, seemingly curious for a true answer.

“No, not even then.” He turned away and hobbled toward the tent flap. When he took the canvas from Scarlett she walked away immediately without looking back.

“John,” Sherlock called out.

He didn’t want to turn back but, dammit, he was still caught in the man’s strange web.

“Don’t do it.”

The command was so cryptic John floundered enough to ask, “Don’t do what?”

Sherlock’s eyes held no pity, nothing to give away the taboo nature of his next statement.

“That thing you think of when you first wake up in the morning and again just before bed.”

John’s hand clenched down on the thick canvas and a pain shot straight down his leg at Sherlock’s cool announcement. Now, if Sherlock hadn’t read almost John’s entire history on his person, he might have assumed Sherlock was insinuating something tawdry. But they both knew that wasn’t the case.

He didn’t ask how the man knew, he didn’t say a word. Apparently, he’d never needed to.

“You just need to find something, anything, to distract you,” Sherlock went on. “I wasn’t being unkind when I said that woman isn’t it. She really isn’t. Maybe it will be another someone, perhaps a career change, a hobby, I don’t know, but something will come along that will make everything else…worth it.”

John could barely breathe at that point. Only Scarlett’s return, her insistent tugging on his sleeve finally pulled John away.

The rest of the walk from the carnival was a blur, Sherlock’s words echoing through his brain, as Scarlett went on and on about how rude and unbelievable that man was. John might have asked, had he been in his right mind, why she wasn’t impressed with the things Sherlock had gotten _right?_ And why didn’t she believe the rest that came after? Possibly because he’d impugned her honor, but he’d actually not said anything that Bill hadn’t said that first night.

_“She’s on the hunt, John. Probably thinks you’re rolling in it.”_

But when she’d learned he was currently unemployed, she’d not run for the hills, so John had assumed Bill was wrong.

_“You think if you stick around long enough he’ll go back to surgery…”_

God, it was probably all true. Every bit. He couldn’t be right about everything else but be wrong about that. But how did John break it off now without it being completely obvious why? He wished he knew more, about how Sherlock knew the things he did, where he’d gleaned the seemingly obvious information right off their clothes or demeanor.

“Just a second,” he cut Scarlett off mid-rant to hobble over to the ticket taker at the front gate. “Excuse me, I’ve a question. Is readmission free if you have the stamp?” He held up his hand to show the man.

“Yeah, mate, as long as you don’t wash it off, you’re good to come back until we close,” he answered.

“And that’s when?”

“Round about eleven usually.”

“Thanks,” he said and met Scarlett by the road as she tried to hail a cab.

Christ, she was trying to put him in debt.

“Thought we were taking the tube?” He asked in what he hoped was a casual clip.

She eyed him; a look he hadn’t seen yet. “I’ll pay if that’s what you’re worried about.”

John deflated at that. So she had at least been paying attention to the part where Sherlock had dragged him through the mud as well. Just as well, now she might not be as brokenhearted when he called it off. He should have been furious, he hadn’t been laid in almost a year, but it probably said a lot about their potential that he wasn’t really that upset.

They hopped in the cab when one finally stopped and didn’t speak for a few tense minutes. John idly wondered if cabbies could sense the tension in their passengers. 

Eventually she turned and asked, “Why’d you stop at the gate?”

John had already formulated a white lie for that. “I’m going to drop you off and then go back and give that bloke a piece of my mind. I was making sure they’d let me back in if I left.”

“Really?” She seemed impressed, which might have been nice an hour ago, back when John was still on the pull. “Well why didn’t you say so? I’d like to see that actually.”

He couldn’t have _that_. “Oh, no, it’s not going to be a spectacle or anything. I was just kind of in shock at first, so I didn’t get a chance to really speak my mind.”

Scarlett squinted at him, that same judging-but-found-lacking stare, but didn’t comment again. John should have been concerned but, again, they were reaching the end of their time together, so it hardly mattered.

There was little in the way of promises to meet again, a half-hearted hug outside the cab, in which Scarlett managed to mostly include the huge stuffed bear as a buffer, and he was back in the cab before she made it to her door. He was a shit for not putting much thought towards her again but he couldn’t stop from picturing those multi-faceted eyes as they’d pierced right through him. They’d pulled out his darkest secrets; things even Ella didn’t know. How could he let that go without finding out _how_?

“Where to?” The cabbie asked.

John stared blankly out the window, hoped magic wasn’t real, and answered, “Back to the carnival.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware: Beyond lies DickButt.


	2. Travelling Caravan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is surprised to find the soldier has returned and even more pleasantly surprised to find he's followed Sherlock home. Many more surprises ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV. This chapter went significantly longer than the previous. No excuse for it, it's one of those mysteries of the universe, just go with it. This is where all the smut is anyway, so I'm sure there are no complaints.  
> Warning: Possible trigger for bad parenting of a trans teenager. Please feel free to send feedback on this if I need to change or apply more tags.  
> Enjoy!

“What did you say?” The imbecile growled.

Sherlock gave a good, if not better, impression when he begrudgingly repeated, “Your son would be much happier if you let him be himself.” He went on to further explain, because apparently it was necessary, “Grades would improve, sports scholarships would come, easing the pressure put on you and your wife to afford Uni, and your relationship with him would vastly improve if he wasn’t so frightened of you.”

The teen in question looked on in inexplicable terror. Sherlock tilted his head, about to ask why, when the father stood from his seat. Sherlock had failed to note the rapidly engorging blood vessels in the man’s face.

“Oh dear,” he drawled and tugged on his suit cuff gently, “you’re not going to make a scene, are you? I just had this dry cleaned.”

“My _daughter_ , Mr. Holmes, is none of your concern. I think somebody needs to teach you a lesson in keeping your blasted opinions to yourself.”

The son shook his head in fear, begging Sherlock to quit while he was ahead.

“I’ve dropped men more indignant than you with both hands tied behind my back,” he casually boasted. He looked at the son and whispered, “It’s true, just last week, in fact, a high ranking Israeli official paid me to- “

“Agh!” The man tossed the oak table away as if it were nothing but paper mache. “I’m gonna break your legs!”

“Oi! What’s going on here?”

Everyone turned to find a small statured ex-soldier, with a cane gripped long ways in his fist, standing in the doorway with a look of such ferocity they all froze in the face of it.

Sherlock hadn’t expected to see him again and said as much.

“Yes, well.” John fidgeted for the first time, losing his nerve somewhat, and what a shame that was. “I had some questions.”

“This prick spread lies about your family too?” The man asked John and then turned back to Sherlock with a pointed finger. “Keep your damn mouth shut about my daughter! C’mon, Bree.” He started to yank the boy away but Sherlock really couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“ _Bree_ , when you decide to run away, ask for Shezza, they’ll steer you in my direction. I’ll see that you get the help you need.”

“Oh, that’s it!” The man rushed at Sherlock with violent intent.

Before Sherlock could even start to mount a defense, John was there. And how _magnificent_ he was.

He had the man by the throat, arms locked perfectly so the brute could breathe but was restricted and immobile. Sherlock felt his blood pressure spike in the face of John’s utter calm.

“Afraid that’s it for you, mate.” He walked the thrashing man to the tent entrance, nodded at Bree to open for him and then launched the man forward with a shove. “Go on!” He yelled with a point, brooking no further arguments. 

Sherlock heard the man bellow for his son but Bree hesitated in the entryway.

“Thank you,” he breathed softly. “You shouldn’t have made him mad, but, thank you.”

“I meant what I said. I hope the rest of your family is more accepting but if not I’ll find a place for you.”

He gave a hopeful smile and ran out.

John turned away with an incredulous chuckle, a hand to his brow as he laughed at the ground.

Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle with him. “What?”

“You,” he explained, which was no explanation at all.

Sherlock tugged his suit jacket straight and sniffed. “What about me?”

John looked up then. Sherlock had never seen what he’d heard described as a twinkle in some ones eye before but the look John gave looked suspiciously like it might be that. _Why_ was he looking at Sherlock like that?

Sherlock was about to ask if John had lost one of his contacts in the scuffle when he responded with, “You don’t make friends easily, do you?”

 _No, I don’t._ “I hardly see what that has to do with anything.”

“You sure know how to make enemies, is all I’m saying. Perhaps you shouldn’t have outted that girl to her father, you ever think of that?”

Sherlock growled at him in frustration. “Is it really so hard an idea to wrap your small brain around that somebody has the right to choose their sex despite the genitals assigned to them at birth? How did you feel growing up with people telling you to try steak and crab and bloody meat pies because they were good, you _just didn’t know it yet_?”

John’s mouth came open like he was about to ask ‘How?’ but then snapped back shut. “That’s not the same. And anyway, I didn’t know _he_ was trans, I thought _she_ was gay." His hand pointing out the difference to show his confusion. "My sister is, you see. That scene there was a pretty familiar one in my house, so I just assumed.” He shrugged.

“Oh,” Sherlock muttered, cowed. He replayed the scene and realized John had missed the important parts. John’s reappearance had thrown Sherlock off his game somewhat. He honestly hadn’t expected the man to return after the information Sherlock had uncovered; that bleached, horrified look on John’s face as he’d walked away had been fairly telling.

He was about to ask John what questions he had when a barrel chested bald man, two stone heavier than either John or Sherlock, stormed in.

He looked at John, Sherlock, and then the upended table. “Who the hell are you? Where’s Barb?”

“She went on break, I’m her replacement.” Sherlock gave a practiced grin.

The man frowned even harder at that.  “The hell you say, I didn’t hire you!”

_Uh oh. The owner. Very well, Plan B._

“Run, John.”

John snapped to attention. “What?”

“Run!”

John went above and beyond the call of duty when he swiftly knocked the owner to the ground with a shove to his sternum, and then off they went.

Sherlock took off at a sprint out the back of the tent, through the gauzy veils and underneath the heavy canvas, just barely remembering to grab his coat on the way out. He spared no thought for John as he made a break for the side entrance of the park, weaving in and out between trailers and vendors hawking sweets and boiled things. He was about to scale the side of the wooden fence along the outside of the park, when John slammed into it right next to him, and only then did it occur to him that John would follow. He grinned in excitement that John had not only followed but kept up. So he was right about the leg.

“Oi, you fucking long-legged berk, help me up!” John snapped.

Sherlock huffed from the top of the fence. “You’re lucky the designer was trying to give the illusion of security in this park,” he said with a grunt as John clasped his hand and hauled him up high enough to reach the top on his own.

“What the hell has that got to do-“

“There they are!” The owner bellowed from about twenty meters off. He had security involved now.

“Shit,” Sherlock mumbled and dropped down the other side to the pavement below. John was right behind.

“As I was saying,” he went on as they raced around the corner, “the architect used a flat Japanese style fence as opposed to-“

“Sherlock,” John snapped as he looked back nervously.

“What?”

“It can wait,” he huffed, arms pumping.

So they ran on in silence, and kept running, even after they were well away, just so Sherlock could see how long John could go before he tired. Might come in handy in the future after all, if all went well. He surreptitiously texted Alex from his coat pocket to grab John’s cane and bring it round. Hopefully he wasn’t going to ignore Sherlock this time, as he hadn’t trained the kid up quite yet; he was mostly still doing favours for the money.

They rounded the corner at Baker Street and Sherlock jogged to a stop outside 221. Delightfully, John followed him right up to the door and inside. They spilled into the foyer with a laugh, both breathing heavily against the wall.

“That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” John laughingly informed Sherlock.

He was about to remind the man that he’d at least once invaded a small country but just then Mrs. Hudson flew out of her flat in a flurry of flour and indignation.

“Sherlock Holmes, what are you up to, making all that ruckus?” She demanded; stern, motherly scowl in place despite the fact that she was not so secretly looking at John in hope.  Did she see his potential as well?

“Hold on,” John interrupted, “your name is really Sherlock?”

Said name bearer looked over, insulted. “Of course it is!”

John laughed until he had to brace his hands on his knees.  Even Mrs. Hudson was snickering behind her hand.

“It’s Old English,” he defended. “It means fair haired.”

This seemed to set them off even more. He could settle them easily if he explained that Sherlock was actually his middle name, but that was a closely guarded secret that only a handful of people in the world knew, and he wanted to keep it that way.

_“Mycroft is a Lord’s name, it is. No one wants to listen to someone named Billy.”_

He could still hear Charlie Tamwood, the gardener’s son, explain why no one would listen to six year old Sherlock’s deductions. He’d marched directly into his mother’s office and demanded to be called Sherlock from then on- never mind that there were no less than four English Kings, and a new prince, named William.

“Sorry, we can’t all be named John or Martha,” Sherlock spit, crossing his arms.

Mrs. Hudson waved him off with her dish flannel. “Go on, you two, just keep it quiet. I’ve a soufflé going in the oven.”

Sherlock ignored the way John’s ears turned red. “At ten thirty at night?” He drawled.

“Oh, go on,” she snapped, “mind your own.” At that she stomped off.

John gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “Nosy neighbor?”

“The worst,” Sherlock agreed with a roll of his eyes. “Come on up. She’ll never quit until we vacate the foyer.”

He didn’t stop to see if John followed as he ran up the stairs, but was yet again proven right when he turned to open the door to 221B to find John behind him. He waved him inside first, which John allowed with a nod. He looked around the flat in curiosity, noting the mess Sherlock was sure, but hopefully not finding it a deal breaker.  Sherlock tossed his coat at the sofa and walked forward with his hands clasped behind his back.

John walked no further than the first few steps into the sitting room, looking from the sofa to the chairs in front of the fireplace, to the mantle.

“Ah,” John breathed as if he’d answered a silent question.

“What?” Sherlock queried, looking around for obvious items that might have jumped out at the unobservant man.

He pointed at the skull. “That explains why you lured me up here.” When Sherlock raised an eyebrow John answered, “Serial killer.”

Nothing could stop Sherlock from laughing at that, even John’s frown seemed to fuel its fire. Karma for his entertainment at Sherlock’s name, surely. He walked to his chair and fell into it, waving at John to follow and take a seat.

He waited until John reluctantly sat down, though he didn’t remove his jacket, before he explained.

“Though I’m sure you possess many fine qualities a serial killer would look for in a victim, I’m sorry to say, nobody will be killing anyone tonight. At least not here,” he allowed with a tip of his head.

John stared back, apparently not soothed by his explanation.

He tried again, a hand to his chest. “Not a serial killer.” He then waved at the skull. “Just a friend. He helps me think.”

“Un huh.” John looked at the skull again, as if checking to make sure it was, in fact, just human bone on a mantle.  “So, _not_ going to kill me?”

“No.”

“All right. So, um, why _did_ you lure me up here?” He fidgeted in his seat and Sherlock suppressed a feral grin.

“I didn’t lure you up here, John.”

“Yes, you full well did. You said ‘run’, remember? After apparently breaking into a carnival to play a mean spirited psychic. What did you do with that woman, by the way? Barb, also known as Madame Endora.”

Sherlock did smile at that. “She’s down at the pub on Carlton Vale. A client paid me to prove she’d been selling hand jobs to teens and, when confronted, she admitted to it quite readily. I even received an offer for one on the house for my silence. I declined, in case you were wondering. But I did ask to have use of her tent. Seemed a less boring way to spend my night; people in and out, asking to be deduced and not even knowing it. Ingenious, really.”

John stared in confusion. “Client?” He drawled the question, working it out. “So, you’re like…a P.I.?”

“No. I’m a consulting detective.”

He pursed his lips at that. “How’s that different from a P.I.?”

Sherlock gave a sigh and sat up straight in his seat. “I investigate crimes at a much deeper level than any Private Investigator ever could. With the police and sometimes private matters.

“Okay, so you’re a P.I. without a license.”

He stared John down but the man wasn’t cowed.

“It still doesn’t explain why you lured me up here,” John went on after the brief staring contest.

“You keep using that word. ‘Lure’. What makes you think I lured you here?”

He scoffed at that, like Sherlock was the crazy one. “You bloody said run!”

“Yes,” he growled low, “but I never said you had to follow.”

John went still at that, his face comically blank.

Sherlock went on. “You could have disregarded the suggestion, you could have run home, hell, you could have run to Cardiff if you’d liked.”

John processed this, blinking around the room, possibly in embarrassment, Sherlock wasn’t sure, before moving to stand.

“Right, I’ll just…um…be on my way then…”

“John, sit,” he commanded. “Please,” he added when John didn’t move.

Slowly, he sank back down, wary now. Sherlock decided to sit back, out of his space, to put him at ease. His fingertips pressed together in the familiar pose he used for solving complex problems. They stared each other down for another minute, the silence clearly bothering John to the point of irritation, before Sherlock sat forward again.

“I should have said, I’m glad you followed.”

John perked up at this, not obviously, but his heart rate increased, his chest puffed out just a little bit more.

Sherlock went on, pleased to have his attention. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Yes.”

“What?” Sherlock asked when John’s answer came directly out in a rush.

“Yes,” he repeated, quite breathlessly, which seemed odd.

Sherlock studied him, looking for signs of illness or fatigue. “You…you don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“God help me, you’re probably into the weirdest shit, but I don’t care. Whatever it is, yes.” He was practically clawing at the cloth of the arm rests, swallowing copious amounts of saliva.

A niggling thought occurred as Sherlock noted the sweat that rolled down John’s neck, the flush of his skin, the…oh…dilated pupils… Yes. John was, to use the crass colloquialism, gagging for it.

“Hmm.” Sherlock sat back in his chair to think upon it. _There_ is _something there_ , he thought. A low level of erotic tension between them, that had been right from the beginning, something he’d ignored right off out of habit. But he found, with John waiting, not so patiently, for Sherlock to agree, that he was suddenly quite keen on the idea of sex with John. He glanced down, unnecessarily, at his crotch. Really, _very keen_ , apparently. But would it be worth it? John had come back once before, and he was perfect in all ways that Sherlock could see, but that didn’t mean he’d agree to stay once they got off.

He glanced down at John’s wonderfully capable hands and decided.

“You were a soldier.”

John nodded in agreement.

“You were a high ranking soldier, in fact.”

“Yes,” he agreed again, an octave lower than normal.

“Perpetrated a lot of violence then?”

John blinked in surprise at that but eventually answered, “Yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much.”

Sherlock smiled slowly, knowing that was the doctor talking just then. He relaxed slowly, rolling his spine, letting his knees fall open.

Let his voice drop so low he knew it would vibrate John where he sat when he asked, “Would you like to perpetrate a bit more?”

“Oh, god, yes.”

John was out of his chair and on top of Sherlock before he could blink. He could have upended the whole bloody thing if he hadn’t planted one knee on the chair and kept one on the floor. Just then Sherlock didn’t think he would have noticed if they _had_ been upended, he was just thankful he remembered the basics of French kissing, because John had engaged without much warning. And it was bloody _fantastic_. He wrenched Sherlock’s head back by his hair as he attacked from above, opened Sherlock’s mouth wide immediately to dive inside, licking deeply, thoroughly, lips slanting together roughly.

He groaned, or one of them did, he wasn’t sure, and then John broke away briefly to tear his jacket off. He came back, smashing their lips together again, five o’clock shadows be damned, and then it was definitely both of them that groaned. John started tugging on his shirt front, and at first Sherlock thought he was trying to get it off, which seemed a strange way to go about it, but he soon realized John was trying to pull him out of the chair.

“Bedroom,” he growled into Sherlock’s mouth. “Bedroom, bedroom, bedroom-“

“All right!” He bellowed and pushed John out of the way. “C’mon.”

He tugged John by the hand, pulled him into the hall, and practically kicked the door open when they arrived at his room. John shoved him from behind and did in fact kick the door to close it again, and then he was on Sherlock like bacterial binary fission. But decidedly less asexual. 

“Fuck, you taste amazing,” John growled against his throat. “How do you do it?”

“It’s not a conscious effort, I assure you.”

John laughed against him and then went back to sucking intently at his skin.

Sherlock thought if he were shot dead right then, he’d still be quite satisfied with the way things had gone. Until John confidently cupped the hard length of him in his trousers, because at that point Sherlock decided there was much he had yet to accomplish.

“John,” he keened, some might have said wantonly, though they would surely be mistaken.

“What do you need? Tell me.” He bit at Sherlock’s jaw bone as he continued to mold his fingers and palm against his cock. It seemed to quite literally melt Sherlock’s knees; John had to prop him against the door with both hands to his hips. “How do you like it, Sherlock?”

He couldn’t remember, it had been too long, but he knew it had never been like this. Heart pounding and viscerally real. “Just take whatever you want, I swear I’ll enjoy it.”

That seemed to do wonders for John’s cock, as he groaned, his forehead fell to Sherlock’s collarbone and they were both laying heavily against the door.

John found the renewed energy to practically throw Sherlock down onto his bed by his shirt front.

“Hey, I said you could do what you wanted with me, but _this_ is Armani-“

John ripped the whole thing apart, buttons went every which way, and then John fell upon him to bite at his trapezius. The argument was forgotten immediately as his arms splayed out and they fell back against the mattress.

“You’re like a blank fucking canvas,” John muttered against his flesh. “I could mark you anywhere.”

Sherlock had lost the ability to form coherent speech patterns so he just nodded.

“You beautiful, brilliant bastard,” he said next and Sherlock sucked in a great lungful of air. His cock swelled, somehow even harder, and he tilted up, seeking friction.

John looked up at him in mild surprise but Sherlock was too busy blinking away the spots in front of his eyes to be embarrassed.

“You like that? Me calling you beautiful? Or was it the brilliant part?”

Sherlock groaned as his heart rate spiked and sweat popped all over his scalp.

“Hmm, because I could praise both all night if you’d like. You’re simply too much, too bloody gorgeous, too bloody amazing, the things you see.” He licked up to Sherlock’s ear and whispered, “Part of me wants to force you onto your knees but another part thinks you might smite me for it.”

That thought, yes, it was good. Very good.

He scrambled back up into a sitting position, arms around John’s torso to keep him upright in his lap, and then once they were steady he efficiently clawed at John’s jeans until they were open enough to reach inside.

“Oh, fucking hell,” John cried out when Sherlock pulled him free.

He used his free hand to pull John up higher, kneeling instead of sitting, so Sherlock could reach him comfortably with his mouth. Saliva welled up at the sight of him, so thick, perfectly fitted for Sherlock’s hand. He couldn’t remember ever being this affected, it was truly unprecedented, and he might have liked time to process it fully, but that’s what made it so unprecedented. He didn’t care one wit to wait.

“Yes,” John hissed as Sherlock’s eyes traced a most prominent vein. “Oh, please, yes.”

He looked up, met John’s eyes as he leaned down to swallow as much as he could right off. And almost lost John to gravity as he flung his head back in pleasure. Sherlock had to yank him back with an iron grip on his jumper.

Noticing that impediment for the first time, he snaked his hand underneath and tugged, trying to tell John to remove it, without words.  

“Fuck, you’re amazing, keep doing that,” he muttered as he pulled the jumper over his head and tossed it.

Sherlock groaned both at the sight in front of him and the praise. He reached up to trace John’s magnificent bullet scar and got his wrist smacked for his troubles.

“Don’t you frown up at me, _Sherlock Holmes_.” John’s hand raked through his hair, tugged once, hard, and Sherlock saw stars again. His eyes rolled and he sucked harder, the bullet wound forgotten.

John’s breath went rough, sawing in and out as Sherlock tongued him in earnest.

“Oh, Christ, you…unnn, you have to stop, I’m going to come,” John panted.

Sherlock groaned at the announcement and worked harder. To his great surprise, John yanked him back by his hair.

He looked up to find John red faced with his eyes squeezed shut.

“Why?” Sherlock growled, angry.

“Mmm,” he growled back incoherently, hand still in Sherlock’s hair holding him back. He tried casually sliding a hand up and down but John snarled and fell back off the bed. “You will wait!” He snapped. “You said I could have what I want, remember? Get naked.”

The order shut down Sherlock’s brain completely and he scrambled to obey.

“Condoms?” He asked, already heading for the bedside table.

Sherlock frantically searched his memory. “I think, yes. Possibly.”

John grew frustrated when after several seconds of digging he found nothing. “Why do you have sea shells and lighter fluid in here? No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. I’m not seeing anything, Sherlock, where else would they be?”

“I- I don’t know. I might have used them all in experiments.” _Idiotic!_

“What are you doing sexually experimenting at your age?” He asked. “Oh, found the lube.” He set that aside and went back to digging.

“Not _sexual_ experiments,” Sherlock explained. “ _Scientific_ experiments.”

 “What kind of-“ He’d looked up from the drawer in confusion but whatever he was going to say was cut off when he caught sight of Sherlock naked in the bed. “Fuck,” he breathed.

“What?” Sherlock nervously questioned but John didn’t answer. His eyes were busy raking Sherlock up and down, mouth open and closing with no sound. “Good?” He asked.

John’s eyes managed to flit back up to Sherlock’s and then he tore the whole drawer out and dumped it on the floor, pawing through it like a mad man.

“Please, please, please, oh, Christ, yes!” He held up a battered and worn silver foil square triumphantly, grinning like he’d won the sex Olympics. Sherlock found it quite flattering.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” He asked when John didn’t immediately jump on him.

His smile had turned into a frown of concentration, his brow puckered as he squinted at the condom wrapper.

“No,” he groaned, frantically smoothing the wrapper straight. “Please, this is not happening.”

“What, for god’s sake!” Sherlock snapped.

“Bloody expired!” John shouted back. He shoved it at Sherlock. “See? Bloody 2008! How sodding long has it been for you? These things are supposed to be good for something like ten years!”

Sherlock glanced down at the bane of his existence and noted, yes, it did expire back in 2008.

“It’s been about that long,” he muttered as his head hit the pillow in defeat.

“Since 2008?” John asked incredulously.

“About ten years,” he corrected as he stared up at the ceiling. Ten years since his last coherent sexual partner anyway, but he didn’t want to say that to John. “I’m clean, but I know you’ll never just take my word for it.”

“I’m clean too, but you bet your arse I won’t.”

“I would willing bet my arse, believe me,” he drawled and tugged at his hair in frustration. “Owwff,” he huffed when John landed heavily on top of him, fully nude and writhing.

“Mmm,” John groaned into Sherlock’s mouth. He had Sherlock by the sides of the head, both elbows planted by his ears on the pillow, as he slotted their hips together.

“Wait,” Sherlock pulled back to look up at Johns stunned face, “why don’t _you_ have any condoms? You were on a date.”

“It was only our second,” he replied, as if that were outrageous, getting laid on the second date.

“You should still have been prepared.”

“Oh, you didn’t pick up on the fact that she was playing hard to get?” John laughed.

That shouldn’t have mattered to a man who was on the pull but maybe in John’s insane logic it made sense. Another thought occurred to Sherlock then.

“Wait.” Sherlock squinted. “Am _I_ easy?”

John grinned, looking infinitely more gorgeous, especially around his eyes where they crinkled happily. “Oh, yes. Beautifully, magnificently fucking easy.”

Sherlock would have protested, had his lips been free. John’s smile never left his mouth as they kissed, for quite a long time. By the time John pulled away, they were both fully hard again.

Slowly, with gentle pressure on his shoulders and hip, John turned Sherlock onto his stomach. He reverently placed kisses in Sherlock’s hair, causing shivers to raise gooseflesh along Sherlock’s back and thighs. Down he went, next kissing wetly at Sherlock’s neck, nipping more gently now but still with that hint of teeth that curled Sherlock’s toes. Next he placed both hands across the span of Sherlock’s back and ran his thumbs deeply into the muscles along his spine, causing a pleased growl to escape from Sherlock.

“I could do this all night,” John mused aloud. “I won’t. But I could. Spend the whole night just touching, mapping each dip. Oh, I’d love to just touch and touch you.”

“As pleasant as that would be, it would satisfy too many people at London Metro if I died from sexual frustration.”

John snickered above him. His bum was planted on the back of Sherlock’s knees and suddenly John had two handfuls of Sherlock’s arse and he wasn’t being the least bit gentle with his grip.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed and flexed his hips, shoving his prick into the mattress, loving every bit of it. 

“You know,” John said conversationally, “I had a girlfriend once, years ago, who was a photographer-“

“Your pillow talk could use some work,” Sherlock interrupted.

John responded by leaning forward and biting Sherlock’s ear. “It’s not pillow talk until _after_ we come,” he informed Sherlock quietly. He then sat back and continued. “As I was saying, she was a photographer, and she had this one show she did, where she took these gorgeous black and white nudes. I didn’t really like it at the time, I was young, insecure, but looking back, they were really something.”

“What, exactly, prompted this trip down memory lane?” He grunted, since John was still roughly pawing at his arse.

“This,” he squeezed and then swatted the meat in his grasp. “You are unbelievably sexy and I’d like to preserve this moment.

“Hmm. Just put it in your mind palace and let’s continue.”

“My what now?”

Sherlock groaned in frustration. “Later, I’ll explain later.” He thrust his bum at John as a not so subtle hint to continue. The pillow in Sherlock’s grip would have to be replaced, as he was fairly sure he’d already shredded the memory foam irreparably.

John snorted, amused apparently, but then wiggled further down the bed. A kiss was placed at the small of Sherlock’s back. He knew he had two small dimples there, they’d been pointed out to him before as particularly enticing, though he hadn’t the faintest why. He’d not given them a thought in many years, but just then John was making them feel like an obvious erroneous zone.

“Has anyone done this for you before?” John asked softly against his spine.

“Um.” Sherlock licked his lips, fairly certain he knew what John was asking but nervous to reply in case he was mistaken.

John licked a wide stripe along Sherlock’s tailbone and Sherlock yelped. That answered that question.

He shook his head a few hundred times and stuttered, “If anyone has, I have no recollection of it.”

John nipped at him and laughingly said, “You’d remember if they’d done a good job. Is it all right?”

Sherlock felt as if he didn’t quite have enough air to breathe a response, as John’s question had sent warm air over the most sensitive bit of flesh in John’s reach. “I- If you- Yes…I suppose if you’d like…”

His pillow was most definitely destroyed then, as John took his leave.

“Oh, Christ, John,” Sherlock moaned. “Yes, yes, god yes.”

He pushed back at John’s tongue, unable to stop the flex of his hips back and then forward against his Egyptian cotton sheets. John groaned as well, clearly finding his actions no hardship. He’d kept Sherlock spread open with both thumbs, fingers leaving impressions in Sherlock’s flesh as he clawed.

Sherlock’s mind scrambled to catalog each new feeling, but he was unable. There was so much to take in, each movement sending a different sensation to Sherlock’s brain. He felt as if even the traveling of the signals passing up his spinal column was an act onto itself. Hot air, wet tongue, wide strokes, pointed ones, circles and stripes, there wasn’t a missed note, everything worked. The noises John made as he went even served to send Sherlock closer to the end result.

“John,” he begged,” John, please. I can’t… Please.”

He pulled away to speak, replacing his tongue with a petting thumb. “Are you ready to come?” He growled.

“Yes! Please.” Sherlock pushed back against that thumb, craving the sudden fulfillment of a more solid instrument.

A hand sneaked underneath and gripped him and Sherlock let out a cry.

“You’re so wet. Jesus,” John murmured.

Words were beyond Sherlock. All he knew was John’s fist and John’s thick digit as it pushed gently inside. Seconds passed, that’s all it took.

He gasped for air, shoved himself into the tight grip, dug his toes in, and then threw his head back as he came. The pleasure was indescribably intense and it spread out in waves from his pelvis to his toes and back.

“Beautiful Sherlock, that’s it. Christ, you’re perfect.” John continued to praise as Sherlock came back down, hot, twitching, and spent. He landed in his own ejaculate but couldn’t have been moved even if England suddenly sank into the sea.

John crawled forward, planted a soft kiss to the nape of Sherlock’s sweaty neck, and then moved back down.

When he heard the cap to the slick being opened, he turned his head enough to send John a questioning look.

“Not to worry, not what you think. Just on the outside.”

He nodded gently, saying he understood, though he was a bit curious as to the exact meaning. He watched, spellbound as John wrapped a wet hand around his own prick, moaning all the while, and then he lowered himself down. A hand came down to brace himself by Sherlock’s side and then he lay himself flush against Sherlock’s arse and immediately started to roll his hips.

“Christ,” John breathed.

“Oh my god,” Sherlock agreed wholeheartedly. He’d just gotten off but his spent prick took full notice of the action.

The head, particularly the corona, of John’s cock rubbed just right over Sherlock’s hole, stimulating and just hinting at what Sherlock could only hope, with a short trip to the corner shop, he’d have in store. He was in no way under control when he started pushing back urgently, which, again, rolled his cock against the wet spot he’d just created. Somehow, perhaps because Sherlock so rarely partook, he was getting harder again by the second. 

“Fuck, Sherlock. You’re so good. So fucking beautiful. Perfect,” John grunted and panted. He dripped sweat onto Sherlock’s back and thrust harder. It might have been minutes, it might have been centuries, Sherlock was lost to the back and forth drag of John’s cock against him, but eventually he started begging again.

“John,” Sherlock whinged, sensitive and aching but chasing that second orgasm like a needy animal. “I need to come again. Please.”

“Oh, fuck.” John sucked in a shuddering breath and, without warning, yanked hard at Sherlock’s hair, pulled his head back and his spine bowed.

That did it.

They both cried out; Sherlock near crying and John with loads more military appropriate swearing.

Sherlock’s second orgasm was less intense than the first, but with the added benefit of feeling John swell and shoot against his back, it was the better of the two. His bones turned to liquid and he fell against the bed a second time, swearing never to move again. With John on his back, it wasn’t a hard promise to make.

John eventually groaned and rolled over. “I haven’t gotten off like that since… I… I don’t think I’ve ever gotten off like that.”

Sherlock grunted, pleased but already near asleep.

“Your loo is next door, right? I’ll grab a flannel and get us cleaned up. You should change the sheets.” He stood slowly and started toward the loo. “Sherlock? Did you hear me?”

“Mmm hmm,” he hummed.

“Are you going to change the sheets?”

“Yes, John,” he replied into the mattress.

He woke up to John shaking him.

“Get up, you great oaf. You’re a lot heavier than you look, I can’t even roll you over properly.”

Sherlock grunted at the invasion. “Leave it,” he groaned, chasing sleep.

John laughed above him. “You’re in the wet spot,” he informed Sherlock, as if he didn’t already know.

“Mmm,” he replied shortly.

A sigh could be heard and then a warm, wet flannel was swiping gently across his back, down to his arse and back up.

“I suppose if you insist on staying where you are then fine, but where are your extra pillows? You’ve destroyed this one.”

“Wardrobe,” he muttered. “Top shelf.”

He could hear John rustling through the linens, muttering about posh bastards and the absurd amount of shoes, so Sherlock felt it his duty to crack an eyelid open to keep an eye on his Ferragamo’s, but then John simply returned with two extra pillows, leaving Sherlock's shoes unmolested. It took an unnecessarily long time to puzzle out that it meant John was staying.

He forced his eyes open further to watch as John bent to pick the comforter off the floor and brought it with him as he crawled back into bed.

The last thing he remembered was John wedging the pillow under his head, tossing the blanket over them, and then absently throwing a leg over Sherlock’s arse.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock woke to find a middle aged ex-soldier wrapped up tight in his grasp, struggling to get away.

“What are you doing, John?” He queried, irritated by the wiggling.

“I can’t bloody breathe. Would you let go!” He shoved at Sherlock’s ankles where they were locked around John’s waist.

“Nonsense. If you couldn’t breathe, you’d not be able to talk. You’re a doctor, I would have thought you’d know that.” He ran his nose into John’s hair and snuffled at the sensation.

“I’m serious. I have to piss and unless you want me doing it here I suggest you stop digging your heel into my bladder.”

Sherlock gave a great sigh and reluctantly let go. John immediately scrambled to the door and disappeared inside the loo. John did indeed evacuate his bladder, and Sherlock decided to use the time to parse how he felt about John staying the night, and the activities there in.  It didn’t take long.

Fine. He felt totally fine. Better than fine in fact.

Even the sound of John frantically swishing with his mouth wash made Sherlock inordinately happy.

“I realized,” John said from the doorway, before stepping inside, “you never did answer any of my questions from yesterday.”

Sherlock frowned as John walked over, picked his pants up off the floor, and put them back on. “You never asked any,” he informed the man.

“I suppose I thought they were implied.”

Sherlock stopped frowning when John climbed back into bed, though he sat back against the headboard instead of crawling back under the blanket. Sherlock sat up as well.

“Ask away,” he intoned regally with a wave.

John smirked but then pursed his lips and asked the most pressing. “How did you know all that about me?”

He thought about seeing if he could convince John he was really psychic, but that would just be mean. Instead, he took John’s hand and turned it this way and that.

“Your hands told me you were a doctor. Dry from multiple washings with antibacterial soap, nails clipped short with regular maintenance. You’re bearing, hair and tan told me you were prior military, recently returned from deployment. Discharged from an injury, as evident by your limp. That’s psychosomatic by the way.”

“Yes, I know.”

Sherlock reached up and ran a thumb over John’s pink scar, remembering how mesmerized he’d been the night before.

“Stop doing that,” John complained and pulled his hand down.

“Why?” Sherlock pouted. He wanted to study it at his leisure and John was being difficult.

“It’s still sensitive and… Because I said.” He huffed and patted Sherlock’s hand in a sort of apology.

He looked John over, noting the tension around his eyes, the miles away he’d gone as he stared at the comforter. “Traumatic experience, obviously. Sorry.” Sherlock turned away in regret for making John upset.

“No, it’s all right. I promise. I’m just not used to anyone being interested in it. You can…if you want.” He waved at it.

Sherlock wanted to, he really, really did, but he hesitated. John wasn’t ready to hear his deductions on the incident yet; the moment of his possible death was too fresh, clearly.

“No. Some other time perhaps,” he said instead.

John glanced up, looking hopeful, a small hesitant grin forming. Why? Sherlock replayed the moment. Oh.

He’d just alluded to another semi-naked encounter at a later date. Apparently John hadn’t been sure of his continued welcome. Sherlock smiled back.

“So, how did you come to the conclusion about the vigilant bit?” John asked.

“Easy. You’re a soldier returning from a traumatic tour overseas, it stood to reason you would develop some form of PTSD, which you have as evident by your lack of sleep and malnutrition. Manifestations of anger are usually typical but it’s not just that with you. You won your date a stuffed bear at a shooting stand. I recognized it as the prize given to the winners of the rifle range, specifically those who hit every target the first time. That meant that despite your hand tremors, you were still able to shoot with perfect accuracy. Eventually you were going to come to crave those moments more and more. Situations of perceived danger where you could exert control over your body or someone else’s, but with you as the avenging angel as I didn’t perceive any particular malice in you. It would start with pub fights and escalate to full blow crime fighting, which would have seen you locked up before you were even done sewing your costume. If I hadn’t intervened, that is.”

John looked caught between anger and a begrudging smile. “And you intervened, did you?”

“Well, obviously.” Sherlock chuckled. “That reminds me, you never let me finish my proposition last night.”

John’s eyebrows rose incrementally. He opened his mouth to form a question but couldn’t seem to settle on which one. Eventually he decided on, “Did we not hash that part out last night? Multiple times, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That wasn’t the proposition, John.” He snorted in amusement. “Though it was a happy divergence. Surprising and quite satisfying. Thank you for that,” he remembered to say, in case John was feeling unappreciated.

John didn't look like he felt unappreciated. He still looked confused.

“I’m not sure… Hmm. What are you saying? You offered a proposition…”

Sherlock smiled at John’s squinty pained look and couldn’t help but run his thumb between his brows to smooth the line there.

“I was offering you a job, John. Or I was going to. You offered a more pleasant distraction from that attempt.”

A breath left John’s chest as he deflated. He slapped both palms to his eyes and pressed. “A job…” He practically squeaked.

“Of sorts,” he admitted. “What do you think?”

John removed his hands and stared at him for thirty seconds without speaking. “A job though?” He groaned.

“An assistant position, yes. Also, if you’d like, I’ve decided to invite you to move in.  We would split the cost of living, and you’d be around more to assist me on my cases. It’s not a _paying_ gig, but, as I stated already, you’d be saving more of your pension anyway if you stayed here with me.”

“You want to live together?” He seemed in shock.

Sherlock had thought they were on the same page. He’d thoroughly enjoyed his time spent with John, short as it had actually been, less than twenty four hours, and he had already made up his mind about it. Apparently John hadn’t caught up. Or perhaps he hadn’t thought they would jump into the arrangement so soon.

“I can offer you the upstairs bedroom, if you’d prefer not to share this one.” He fiddled with the blanket before he realized it made him appear nervous, which wouldn’t do, so he dropped it.

“I’ll be honest, Sherlock, I’m surprised,” John said hesitantly.

Sherlock looked up, suddenly sure he'd blow it somehow. “Why? Did you not… Was last night not…satisfactory?”

John let out an abrupt chuckle. “My god, you can’t think it wasn’t!”

Sherlock shrugged, embarrassed but unwilling to implicate himself as caring either way.

“Sherlock… Let me put it this way: if I considered last night, from the time we met to this moment, our first date, I would be out right now looking for an engagement ring.” Sherlock’s eyes widened at that, his heart ticking madly, but John went on. “The part I’m surprised about is that you’re apparently feeling the same insanity that I am. We just met! I can’t just move in. Hell, you might actually still turn out to be a serial killer for all I know.”

Sherlock shook his head rapidly. “I’m not.”

“Oh, I’ll just take your word for it, shall I?” He asked with a smile.

A thought occurred to Sherlock and he winced, muttering, “Shit,” under his breath. 

“What?”

He glanced up and away, wondering if he could get to the fridge before John saw the severed foot on the top shelf and remove it before it implicated him. Possibly could, if John wanted a shower.

“Nothing,” he announced casually. “Are you saying you think it’s too sudden, then? Moving in, helping me with cases? Or is it because we became intimate? Because I’m of the opinion that we work well, in all areas.”

John, thankfully, seemed to like this confession, and seemed to think on it.

“I didn’t set out last night looking to move in with a gypsy fortune teller, I can tell you that.”

Sherlock groaned. “You are positively awful, John.”

“What? At least I didn’t try to seduce you with references of gypsy daggers. I thought about it, but I didn’t. Give me some credit.”

“Your horrendous pick-up lines aren’t the issue. Your use of ethnic slurs is.”

John frowned. “Gypsy is an ethnic slur?”

“Yes, John. Welcome to the twenty first century.”

“Piss off! I’d never heard that before.” He shoved Sherlock gently with his shoulder. “You know, for someone with absolutely no tact whatsoever, you are remarkably politically correct.”

“And for a half-arsed vigilante you can be surprisingly blind to your prejudices.”

John flung himself on top of Sherlock and rolled them across the bed. Sherlock was breathless in surprise as John laughingly snogged him quiet.

John pulled away enough to ask against his lips, “So what would be the politically correct term if I was to reference your cock as part of a traveling caravan?”

Sherlock suppressed a laugh. “Romany is the term you’re looking for, though my family is mostly from Yorkshire and Lorraine.”

“Mmm, Romany Dagger. I do like the sound of that,” he admitted, palming said bit of flesh until Sherlock was panting.

They both froze and turned in horror when a familiar, “Hoo Hoo,” called out from down the hall.

“Go away!” Sherlock bellowed back.

“Sherlock, dear, a young man-“

“Go away!”

“-came by last night-“

“Go away!”

“-late, I might add, and dropped off-“

“For god’s sake, go away!”

“-this cane and said you’d told him make sure it was safe, so I kept it until-“

“Go! Away!”

“-I was sure you were up. I’m assuming it belongs to a client.”

“Wonderful, now go away!”

She hesitated a moment. “I’ll just leave it here by the door then.”

“Fine! Get out!”

“I’m making breakfast. You and your friend come down, there’s plenty for all.”

“I will end you, woman!”

“Sherlock! Be nice, you’ll drive him off!”

John looked far from being put off. He was silently laughing his arse off against Sherlock’s chest. They both heard when she shut the door and descended the stairs back to her flat.

“She break into your flat a lot, your neighbor?” John asked with a snicker.

“Yes, incessantly. Thinks because she owns the place that she can run roughshod.”

John nodded sagely. “So she’s actually the landlady. That explains that.”

“I hope that doesn’t prevent you from moving in. She’s really rather harmless, as far as landladies go.”

John pecked him on the lips. “Not at all, she seems perfect. Christ, she’s cooking breakfast! You’d have to push me out the door to get me to leave.” At that he rolled away toward the end of the bed.

Sherlock, horrified, snatched him round the wrist and pulled him back. “Where are you going?”

“To eat. I’m starving. Haven’t had anything solid in my stomach in a full day.”

Sherlock vacillated between ‘So what? Come back and touch my penis again’ and what he felt was his duty to fill John full to bursting with food. He, himself, could skip several meals before refueling became dire, but John, he was depressingly thin from not eating. Eventually Sherlock let him up, if only to see how long it would take before John was back at his Army weight.

“You’re not coming?” John questioned as he got dressed.

“No. I’m protesting Mrs. Hudson at the moment. She interrupted what would have been a lovely morning round of intercourse.”

John grinned and decided to crawl back onto the bed to hover over Sherlock. “I’ll be back, you know.”

“Yes?” He went for unperturbed but probably fell short as he stared up at John’s indigo eyes, shining in the morning light.

“Yes. Do you know why?”

Sherlock shook his head, desperate for John’s answer. Anything that wasn’t ‘Because I accidentally left my coat.’

“Because I found something worth it.”

A bomb went off in Sherlock’s chest, spreading warmth and chaos. It was decided then. He would keep John.

They smiled at each other until Sherlock’s face pained him and he decided to push John out of the way.

“I suppose I could come down for breakfast. Just this once.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy ending, yay!!! *collapses*

**Author's Note:**

> This was ridiculous and stupid and I'm 100% sure that it's been done before but I have no control over this shit anymore. Hopefully you guys liked it. Let me know what you thought and I'll love you forever. Or come say hey on Tumblr at [artisanbloodbank](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/artisanbloodbank).  
> Check [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BiuLHqkxbLY) out, it's this fics namesake and might get you in the mood.


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